


Stanley? Never.

by The_Bi_Gondola_Incident



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Friendship, M/M, To Be Continued, ongoing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 00:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21328954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Bi_Gondola_Incident/pseuds/The_Bi_Gondola_Incident
Summary: A series of vignettes/short stories between Stanley Uris and each member of the loser club of 1989. Stories which shaped Stanley and give insight into both the person he was then and just exactly what he meant to each other member of the losers. Perhaps that even change the nature of his death and just exactly how differently they percieved it.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom & Stanley Uris, Beverly Marsh & Stanley Uris, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris, Mike Hanlon & Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Stanley? Never.

Stan never feared pain. And originally that was expected. Little boys, after all, are never expected to fear harm; rather they are taught they’re invincible. They heal quickly, every day sacrificing their safety for an adventure up the highest neighborhood tree or down the steepest neighborhood hill. And if he scraped his knee along the way and tears found themselves falling down his cheeks, that was when his father would appear, who told him to “Butch up” and “Stop crying,” “You’re fine.”

Sure enough within an hour his mortal wounding would scab over, his tears would dry, his old man giving him a knowing nod and a lesson would be learned within the boy which he would apply to every future flesh wound of equal or lesser calibur: You’re fine.

It should also be noted that Stanley Uris had never once scraped his knee before in his life.

***

This day in particular was an awkwardly heated day for November. Perhaps the heating system of Derry High School had started pumping hot air into its classrooms too soon into the year. Or perhaps it was the oversized puffy jacket Stan wore to cover up his regrettable choice off a shirt (A well-loved The Muppet Show t-shirt, a size just two too small and despite not seeing the light of day for some time now, faded from its original candy-apple red to baby pink. Ironic.)

Regardless of why, Stanley was stuffy and uncomfortable, and in that moment especially pissed.

“Psst. Psst! Stan! The one and only Stan the Man, birdbrain of Derry! Aw for christ’s sake, would you get your wet wipes out of your ears before-”

“What!?” He hissed back, not turning his head. “What the fuck is it, Richie!?”

Richie pulled back in his desk one row left and two seats down, grinning with wide-eyes.

“Shit, Uris! Getting a ‘fuck’ out of you is like getting a fuck out of your mom! Next to impossible, but when it happens-”

“Richard Toizer!" Snapped Mrs. Moore at the front of the classroom, slamming her copy of the class book shut. "As I seem to remember, this is your third time today in which I’ve heard you recalling a disgusting act of profanity to one of your classmates, is it not?”

Stanley quickly twisted away from him and hunched over his desk diligently, while Richie stumbled up hurriedly to be seen even better. And though he was still sticky with sweat and frustration at Richie for not simply_ letting him work _, a smile couldn't help but creep onto his face.

“Fourth ‘shit’ since teatime, mums! An’ if you got an extree crumpet, that’ll be five if ye’ like!”

Stanley snickered a quick, regretful snicker. More like a sharp nose exhale than anything but it was enough to stand out against the otherwise silent classroom already sick of Richie’s shit.

But Stanley wasn't. He honestly couldn't ever be. Richie was wild and messy and "_ magpie-minded _" (as he so lovingly referred him in his own head, never out loud) and he naturally had to be Stanley's best friend.

Simply put, he was a watcher and Richie was the object of his observation 9 times out of 10. And because Richie loved the watching as much as he loved his "_ favorite Jew _" (as he so lovingly referred to him both inside and outside his head, loudly and often), they remained best friends and even best friends #2 after two other losers would individually take their respective spots as best friend #1.

Regardless, he had exhaled just a bit too sharply.

“Mister Uris, do I hear something?” Mrs. Moore moved faster, sharper when attention shifted onto the other boy.

“And just what’s so funny about Toizer’s statement?” Gray eyes flashed to blue. A terrible, **hungry** blue. “Stand up! Stand up and share with the class, won’t you?”

Suddenly eyes, eyes which didn’t blink when Richie was making an ass of himself, darted onto Stanley: onto his curls, onto his nose and onto his mouth most of all.

‘_ Would the little freak do it today? Would the birdbrained boy scout basketcase go bonkers again? _’

His breath quickened. Quickened and quickened until one breath split into two, then three, then four- then none.

Their shiny blue eyes squinted and their perfect silk hair stood up on end and even their little button goy noises, hardly any smaller than Stan’s own, scrunched up in tension. Stan was hunching now with the weight of their thoughts all upon him and pushing down, down until they pierced the back of his neck and wormed their way into his brain with the worst of them.

‘_ Is the Schitzo gonna snap? _’

The sharp scoot of a desk chair and then the stumble of feet standing stopped them.

“Ladus and gentlemen of the juruh!” announced the fattest, roundest and most deeply southern voice the Mainer children had ever heard. “I stand in defence of my client, a-mister Stanley Elizabeth Uris here before you today.”

Richie saw. Of course he couldn’t hear their classmates voices as Stan had, no one else really could. But Richie saw his friend hunched over, practically lying on his desk and what he **could** hear was the tack on how Mrs. Moore pronounced “Uris;” like a little grunt. He also remembered the _ last time _ (' _ Mister Uris! Stanley Uris, you sit down this instant! _') just as clearly as anyone else.

“And as our beingun statement, we’d like to plead… Insanituh.”

And for a moment Stanley could breath. Eyes stopped piercing and moved back to their rightful place: Richie. While he still couldn’t sit up or even smile at the act of kindness his friend had done for him, he thanked his lucky stars for whatever introduced the bird watcher to the bird.

“What did he say?” Murmured a nameless boy to the left of the classroom.

“Insanity!” Shouted Richie, now back in Maine. “The coo-coos, the crazies; this boy’s a certified psycho! He’s killed twenty just before lunch alone!”

“Richard Tozier, shut up!” Barked out Mrs. Moore, finally the last to divert her gaze. And when Richie met her gaze he would only see dull gray; sharp, strained and furious at his interruption but gray all the same. “Detention. Detention, now! Principals office and get out this instant, you little monster!”

In Stanley’s mind, detention was a harsh sentence for Richie’s usual interruption, but he also didn’t see those eyes. Those sharp, vicious eyes searching for the paranoia already present in the boy’s heart. Richie had saved him much more trouble than he had realized.

The lanky youth only replied with a smile and a bow to the classroom, again disinterested. Passing by his desk, Richie gave Stanley two pats on the back and slipped a note in the crook between the wood and his chin. With that he was gone.

Within about five minutes, Stanley could sit up in his seat again. The note, scribbled in Richie's usual messy chic, caught his eye plainly and in bright blue ink:

**Going to eat a man alive tonight. Don't wait up.**

Stanley rolled his eyes, crumpled up the page. **Mass**, it meant he was going to mass tonight with his parents (a concept Richie had only explained to him just the other day, "something Catholic, pointless and so long it barely matches my dick. Barely.")

The extended ring of the school bell hit and students began shuffling from the classroom.

"Don't wait up" meant he would also have to walk home today alone. 

_ 'Well that's just shit luck. The one day he does something worth thanking and I'm stuck without him on the way home. What a waste.' _

Of course Stanley didn't stand up until the classroom was empty, Mrs. Moore included. He hoped, finally stacking his belongings into his bag neatly, that Richie would break out of detention. Or get released or excused, etc. He needed comfort still, and a friend. He was still heavily shaken. He really didn't want to walk alone tonight.

***

He couldn't move fast enough with the stupid puffy jacket, so much so that the moment he broke out of slight and into the trees he shed the layer and clutched it in a tiny, tighly tucked twist in his hand. He walked fast and briskly, through the thicket of the woods that shortcutted between his house and Derry High School, the route always conventionally taken by him and Richie.

Riche, walking before him with his usual spry, would always push through the branches and rough weeds first. He would always point out a plastic bag or a pair of shoes or even a coke can stuck in a tree and dare Stan to dare him to climb up and get it. Stan would always roll his eyes, push his friend away from the object of his fascination. _ ‘Your heart may be flambé, Icarus, but your wings are fodder for the flame.’ _

And Richie would never understand a single word he said, but always, **always** let his Daedelus bring him home nonetheless.

As Stanley crushed pepper colored leaves under his sneakers, reminiscing about the ‘always’ of his life, he heard something he had never, ever heard in these woods before. Screaming. Distant, soft, barely covered by the twirr of a Gray-cheeked Thrush, screaming.

His first shameful thought was that it wasn’t real. And no one could blame him for that, not someone who knew him after all. 

_ ‘Don’t you start with me, Uris.’ _ He chided himself, walking faster, crunching leaves harder and letting his ears soak up the thrush-song around him.

_ ‘Not today. You’ve already made a spaz of yourself, now cut it out!’ _

Luckily the boy couldn’t crunch the leaves too hard, otherwise he would not have heard the screaming continue, only softer now as he moved away. 

The boy who that scream belonged to was thankful Stanley had birdwatching steps.

Stop. He heard this quick thought come into his mind from his eyes who subconsciously noticed the branch he was just about to walk into. In shock the walking could stop, crunching could stop, and the Gray-cheeked Thrush flew always in the sudden jerk back he made to halt.

The screaming didn’t stop.

Though as he could hear it now, it wasn’t really screaming but rather yelling. Short little shouts of “Get the hell away from me!” Followed by grunts and a **thud,** then shouts once more. Stanley heard things that weren’t there, he was a freak for that and that he understood. But as much as a flippant, moody little freak as he was, he never, **never** hallucinated violence.

He stood frozen there in front of the low hanging branch, hypnotized by the possibilities that could make these sounds (‘_ It’s horseplay, just friendly fucking horseplay. Yeah. And if someone just happened to fall on the ground or into the tree, well then it’s just hardy har har, right? You’d do the same if Richie pushed you over too. _’)

More shouts joined the fray. These voices, deeper, louder and bigger, shouted expletives that Stan at age 12 had never heard before. 

“Gonna getcha, ya little fucking fairy boy! And when I do I’m gonna shove that tiny queer air machine so far up your ass you’ll whistle out your ears when you shit!”

His grip tightened on the puffy coat and his head involuntarily twisted to it’s direction. His voices had no direction, but these did. True West. They came from True West.

“Leave me the fuck alone!”

His scout master had taught him-

“I’m gonna snap your little fruit neck!”

That the sun rose in the east-

“Oh holy shit, You!" *wheeze* "Kid standing there!" *wheeze* "Whoever the fuck you are, **help**!”

And set in the west.

“It’s the fuckin Uris freak, Henry! It’s the fuckin schizo!”

And now the voices were upon him.

***

Before Stanley Uris knew it he was running. Through the trees and branches and thicket which now cut his cheeks as he pushed his legs one after another. Each step, each push of his body forward against gravity was echoed with three crunches behind him.

'_ No, no, no _ ** _no_ ** _ ! _ ' He thought in screams while his mouth stayed shut. ' _ Uris you idiot! You slack-jawed, stupid, stupid idiot! Who just stands there while Henry freaking Bowers runs at you in full speed and with three lackies behind him. _'

He knew the yelling boy no longer ran from the gang, probably grateful (if he'd seen it was Stan) that the wound-up little freak had taken the attention of his attackers away from him. Three sets of footsteps followed Stanley. Three sets and the sound of an ungodly amount of weezing. He assumed it was him, though he never weezed when he ran before, considering today he both was running for his life and learned a fairy was apparently a bad thing to be, today was a day of firsts.

“Right behind you, girly boy! You and your little goddamn boyfriend too!”

‘_ Richie _.’ Immediately in Stan’s mind as adrenaline pushed him forward; down the safe path, the comforting path, the ‘always’ path. The path to Richie’s house.

‘_ Uris you coward, you coward! _ ’ He silently screamed to himself as pools of gelatinous water began to fill his vision. ‘ _ What _ ** _told_ ** _ you to go to Richie’s, huh?! Is it your instinct, did you think he could help you?! _’

Legs became wobbly, adrenaline dropped out and suddenly Stanley could feel the weight of his body again. His feet ached and ankles rolled over every log he hadn’t notice until now.

‘_ You’ll lead them to his house and you’ll wait there, you’ll wait there like the coward you are and they’ll wait too. They’ll wait too and when he and his family come home they’re going to jump them. You’re going to get his family killed, you’re going to get _ ** _him_ ** _ killed! _’

Harder down tears flowed and calves burned and his heart was breaking. He no longer had sight, his hearing broken down by the background sounds of shouts, his hands gripping the jacket so tight it hurt, the smell of the pine needles sticking to his face with every branch that hit it and the taste of his own blood- Richie’s family’s blood and **Richie**’s blood- staining his throat.

‘_ Turn, turn, turn, for the love of everything good, _ ** _turn_ ** _ ! _’

And he flung himself sharply left. The boy flew with sprawled arms three feet above the air for an uncountable number of steps. Then he fell.

***

Sudden silence hit harder than the tree. Of course it wasn't the tree which hit him but Stanley who hit the tree. He was cut from his left ankle to his thigh by the tree's bark and now laid beside it’s trunk. He was conscious; conscious and fully aware of every second that past from the second he hit the ground, but with eyes held so tightly shut he might as well have been dead.

“Jesus-fucking-H. Christ, Henry, I think he’s… He’s dead.”

“Shut the fuck up, Belch. There, look, he’s breathing. Happy, dipshit?”

Silence.

“...Do you want to go down there, or…?”

“No I do not want to fucking go down there, the little spaz got blood everywhere and I don’t even have a godamn clue who he is. Not like I even cared about the boyscout bitch, but the little Kaspbrak shit got away. Whatever, I’m over it. Come on, let’s go meet up with Patrick at the yard. Fuck this.”

Footsteps, enough for two teenage boys and no one else, faded off into the distance. Once fully assured that he was safe and alone, Stan sat up and felt the regular breeze of the world once again. He was not dead, though convincing himself of that was harder than one would think, and he was safe. His first thought went to Richie, who he promised himself he would tell about the entire event later. Maybe the fear of losing his only friend to the next unannounced Bower attack would be enough to convince him to skip mass in the future. Regardless, for now he was safe. The return of the Gray-cheeked Thrush reminded him of that. And as he was safe and assuredly alone now, he found what little courage left he could muster and opened his watery eyes to face the void and cry.

Only the void wasn’t there. What was, was Eddie “Wheezy” Kaspbrak, hunched over, having a panic attack and pointing at Stanley’s newly gutted leg.

Then there was no time to meet the void, for that was exactly when Stanley passed the fuck out.

***

Never before had Stanley had to go through the mortifying experience of physical trauma. Emotional trauma, yes, and mental trauma would be right around the corner this summer but not so much as a hard fall since the day he was born. His parents were good and his scoutmaster was better at making sure little boys didn't die "Leave that up to the damn wolves," Scoutmaster Hughs would always say in passing. He always blamed the wolves for every child's disappearance in Derry. Even when more out of state scoutmasters joined their troup for retreats and informed him that no wolves ever actually inhabited in their part of Maine. He never listened. He knew those beasts were out there, no pansy “zoologist” generation X’ers were going to tell him otherwise, least of all after he stumbled onto that damn Cullum kid…

Regardless, the shock of immediate gore on him terrified Stanley into such a defenceless state that his natural response was to flee the pain through shutting down every nerve in his body. So much so that when he awoke, he found his leg so numb, his first reaction was this:

  
“I’m dead. I Stanley Ezra Uris am dead and have bled out in this disgusting little ditch and this is the worst day of my life.”

Silence.

  
  


“Stanley Uris, if you’re dead, then I must be Saint fucking Peter.” Said a voice back.

“... _ What? _ ”

  
  


“...Of course, you’re wrong and an idiot if you not responding means you believe that, but you did get one thing right: this ditch is filthy and- full disclosure- I have no reservations about leaving you to really die if you try to touch me with your-...” he struggled to get out the words. “Blood-coated or dirt-soaked-whatever hands right now.”

In that moment Stan was subject to too much shock to be in fear. He was still yet to make the connection that this voice (highly pitched and scratchy from screaming) belonged to the very same boy he saw just before passing out.

“Speaking of blood-” And Stan felt a deep jab of pain pulse through his left shin, causing him to yelp out in shock. The return of pain that he forgot even existed within him. A warm trickle of blood erupted down his leg, causing the voice to shriek and suddenly the pressure on the wound fell away. He heard a stumble, allowing him to assume that the boy fell back.

“Oh, Jesus fuck! Ew, ew, ew, ew, fucking gross, ew!”

With the boy away, Stan pulled his leg close to him, making the wound stretch even further.

“ _ Aaahhhhhhg, SHIT! _ ’ He mentally screamed, while the lump in his throat prevented the words from getting to his lips. His leg collapsed back down involuntarily but through his fear of facing that pain again, Stanley found an ounce of grip on the dirt around him and tugged himself away from the boy. Using his free arm, he pushed his torso up from the dirt to face his attacker.

That was the moment he put two and two together to realize the voice belonged to the tiny hotheaded hypochondriac misfit that was Eddie Kaspbrak (trying to decontaminate his fingers with hand sanitizer and a wet wipe) and not a real attacker.

But sweet, sweet inexperienced Stanley didn’t know that.

“B- Back the hell away from me!” Shouted Stan at Eddie, his eyes like saucers and his heart beating through his ears. “Who are you?! Why are you!? Here! W-why are you here?!”   
  
Stan was panicking and Eddie was shocked. Shocked and yet still preoccupied with eradicating all germs to respond. Fortunately that gave Stan time to think.

“ _ He’s here, oh shit, shir, shit! Why is he here?? Why is he…. So small? And dressed so nicely and too put together- _ ” (Naturally Eddie was just as mud splattered and disheveled as he was but somehow that boy made even dirt look clean). “ _ Jeez, he looks like he's even dressed for freaking temple! He isn’t one of Bower’s goons, he could never be. The thought of that’s just laughable. They would just... kill him. And he’s so boney that if he ever threw a punch, every sinew in his body would just snap, wouldn’t it?…He's… He's like m- _ ”

But once Stanley, in his visual assessment of Eddie’s threat factor, caught sight of his leg once more: a miserable red racing stripe of pain, now bleeding quite profusely; and the sight of fingerprints, bloody red fingerprints around it and leading directly to the hands he so fervently was trying to clean, Stanley lost it.

He pointed out at him. "You!" He choked out at Eddie. Stan clutched the upper part of his leg. "You- You keep your hands to yourself, you fucking- you fucking  **freak** !”

“ _ Stanley, you monster. You stupid, stupid monster. _ ”

Before this point Eddie had tried to be civil, in his own meaning of the word. But now? After hearing that word, the f-r-e-a-k always there in all memories of his childhood like burnt edges of a scrapbook recovered from a great fire: Eddie was ignited once again.

“Shut your goddamn fucking mouth!” Shouted Eddie to the look of futile regret named Stanley. “You don’t call me that, no one fucking does! Least of all the fucking asshole kid who couldn’t be bothered to go and  **look** when someone’s screaming bloody murder in the fucking  **woods** ! I could’ve died, you selfish piece of shit! I could been killed by fucking wolves-”

“ _ Wolves. _ ”

“Or mauled to death by rabid bears-”

“ _ Mauled and dead, only noticed when it’s long too late. _ ”

“And it would have been your fucking fault!”

“ _ He could have been just like James Cullum. _ ”

“And because I survived and because I landed right fucking here, I try to help! I try to check your wound and remind an idiot that he’s not dead, and yet what do I get!?”

“ _ We both would have been just like James. _ ”

“Disgusting, stranger’s blood all over my fucking hand and-... Oh shit.”

  
  


Tears and snot. Tears and snot rolling down the boy’s face obfuscated every nook and feature on him, until there was nothing but flowing misery to be known.

  
“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry, James. I didn’t want it to happen the first time, I didn’t realize it could happen again. I’m sorry no one was there.”

He pawed at the tears as if they would stop falling if they knew their presence was unwanted. So many droplets dove through the dozen new holes in his soft pastel muppet shirt, freezing his torso with every hit like hail through butcher paper. The mucus rising through his sinuses stopped every other word, yet he pushed on.

“I’m so sorry that- that I never k-knew you.”

  
  


While Stanley’s river continued to flow, oddly enough, Eddie had nothing to say. He didn’t know  **what** to say, there was nothing in the world that anyone could expect him to say.

But he saw those tears like the liquified grief they were. And he knew who the Jimmy Cullum kid was, everyone did. No one… No one wanted that to ever happen again.

So Eddie pulled out two tissues (both Kleenex brand, which he stockpiled like bottled water before a drought, only for emergencies), one in his left and one in his right. And the left one he shoved, admitted very ungracefully into Stanley’s face- also under the impression that the tears would stop if they were told to get the hell out.

But the other he kept in his tiny little hand like a sheet over a bed. Then picking up Stan’s, now limp as an exhausted child, he put it to bed over his. The tissue was there as a buffer but not a muffler, for Eddie still felt every ounce of weight from that terrified hand. There he sat himself next to Stan on a stump beside the boy. And with a great deal of fear and uncertainty in his voice, Eddie told him:

“I’m not… James. But what I am is sorry. I’m Sorry personified, but I also go by Eddie, if you’d like. And I guess, if there’s still time left and you can get over my shitty attempt at helping, then…”

And though Eddie would never again admit it, then and there he sniffled as well.

  
  


“Then I guess you can know me.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> Each story will come in a chapter which will be updated periodically as the main story goes on. Absolutely please comment if you have anything to say, more constructive feedback means both a better story for you and me :)
> 
> To Be Continued...


End file.
